Chapter 17
Aksel
I watched Lorna return from her encounter with Horakovsky. Takken was in his study as usual. His biometrics, analyzed through the remarkable algorithms the Pretorian Guard had shared with us, told me he wasn’t paying any attention to the report he pretended to read.
On my surveillance feeds Lorna entered the prime minister’s residence, her movements stiff and careful.
The high-resolution imagery from the micro-drones I’d planted months ago showed every detail—the slight limp in her gait, the way she held her coat closed despite being alone in the hallway, the tremor in her hands as she reached for the door handle.
My jaw clenched as I saw the breakdown of her biometric readings.
Elevated stress hormones, inflammation markers consistent with physical trauma, traces of foreign biological material that made my blood run hot.
Even though I’d commanded her to submit to it, the strength of my angry response as Lorna’s Herra took me by surprise.
The data confirmed what I’d expected, but now found almost intolerable—Horakovsky had been brutal with her, more so than even I would have predicted from the way Lorna had described her visions.
I forced myself to maintain clinical detachment as I documented everything for our intelligence files, but my hands betrayed me, curling into fists against the desk. My brave little v?lva had endured exactly what I’d asked of her, and the weight of that knowledge sat like lead in my chest.
Through the audio feed, I heard her soft gasp as she lowered herself onto the sofa, followed by the whisper of fabric as she finally let the coat fall open.
The apartment’s ambient temperature read twenty-two degrees Celsius, yet her skin showed clear signs of cold stress response—goosebumps, involuntary shivering.
Shock, perhaps, or simply the psychological impact of what she’d endured.
I pulled up Takken’s feed on a secondary screen.
The man hadn’t moved from his desk in over an hour, his whiskey glass refilled twice in that time.
His pupils dilated slightly when Lorna’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, but he made no move to check on his wife.
The biometric analysis suggested a complex emotional state—anxiety, anticipation, and a set of observations that the algorithm classified as arousal, though I suspected it had more to do with the power dynamics than any genuine desire for Lorna.
My fingers, on my keyboard, started a query, acting almost independently of my mind.
A correlation of Takken’s current biometrics with past observations might tell me whether he would approach Lorna.
Knowing whether he would demand details of her degradation or simply ignore what had happened could provide valuable intelligence about his psychological state and his relationship with Horakovsky.
Moreover, the icon for the app that connected me with Lorna’s burner phone seemed to stare at me from the corner of my screen. If Takken wasn’t going to come to see her, I might be able to send her a message that carried at least a little reassurance and affection.
I wanted desperately to contact Lorna, to offer her comfort or at least acknowledgment of what she’d sacrificed. But it felt too dangerous now. The Synergy Group had their own surveillance network, crude compared to ours but effective enough. Any unusual communication patterns could expose her.
Through the feed, I watched Lorna struggle to her feet and make her way toward the bathroom.
Each step seemed to cost her, and when she reached for the doorframe to steady herself, I saw the bruises beginning to bloom on her wrist where someone—Horakovsky or one of his thugs, most likely—had gripped her too hard.
“I love you,” I murmured to her image, on my screen. “I hope your v?lva’s sight tells you that, little one.”
Lorna
As I stepped into the shower, I kept my eyes down on the clean white of the tile.
I did everything in my power to avoid seeing myself in the mirror.
I didn’t want to think about what I’d just been through.
I didn’t want to think about the burner phone, and the possibility that my Herra might make contact.
I didn’t want to do anything but let the water run over my body.
As soon as the shower’s flow began to warm my limbs, though, my hands developed a life of their own.
My fingers traced down my belly, drawn by some terrible compulsion to examine what had been done to me.
The first tentative touch against my bare mound made me gasp—the skin was still hot and swollen from Horakovsky’s whip, each nerve ending hypersensitive.
I could feel the raised welts where the leather had struck most cruelly, and the lightest pressure sent jolts of pain mixed with something else through my core.
I shouldn’t have continued exploring, but my fingers moved lower, parting my tender folds.
Everything was puffy and abraded, and when I brushed against my clit, the sensation was so intense I had to brace myself against the shower wall.
The memory of the flogger striking there made me shudder, but beneath the soreness lay an unmistakable throb of arousal.
My other hand moved behind me, almost without conscious thought.
My fingertips found the tender ring of muscle that Horakovsky had violated so brutally.
It was sore, stretched, still slightly open from his use.
As I pressed gently against it, testing the damage, a shock of pure need shot through me.
The soreness itself seemed to trigger something primal—not just the physical sensation but the memory of complete helplessness, of being pinned and taken while the bodyguard watched and commented.
Before I could stop myself, I was rubbing my clit with desperate circular motions while my finger pressed into my aching bottom.
The dual stimulation, the mingling of pain and pleasure, the shame of getting aroused by my own degradation—it all combined into an overwhelming wave that had me climbing toward orgasm with shocking speed.
The moment I started to crest, the world shifted.
The silver branches of Yggdrasil materialized around me with startling clarity, more vivid than ever before.
But this time, I wasn’t being pulled helplessly upward—I could direct my ascent, choosing which branches to follow.
The threads of possibility spread before me like a vast web, and I could see—
Takken. Right now. Rising from his desk, setting down his whiskey glass with a sloppy movement that indicated it wasn’t his first or even his third. Walking toward the bathroom with measured steps. His hand reaching for the door handle in less than thirty seconds.
I yanked my fingers away from myself with a gasp, the vision dissolving as I fumbled for the shower controls. The water shut off just as I heard footsteps in the bedroom. I grabbed a towel, wrapping it around myself as the bathroom door opened without a knock.
“Well?” Takken stood in the doorway, his eyes cold and calculating. “What did he do to you?”
I met his gaze steadily, surprised by my own composure. The vision had given me precious seconds to prepare, to push down the trembling vulnerability and find a core of ice within myself.
“He whipped me,” I said flatly, letting the towel slip just enough to show the welts across my lower belly.
“My pussy, to be precise. Then he fucked my ass while his bodyguard watched and described it all.” The words came out with a coldness that surprised me.
“Then he made me stay on the floor with my bottom in the air while he washed himself. Like I was furniture.”
Takken’s jaw worked silently, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—disgust battling with something else, something darker.
“He wants us both as his guests next weekend,” I continued, keeping my voice steady despite the way my insides churned at the memory.
“Three days at some special location. And until then…” I let the towel slip further, revealing more of the angry welts.
“I’m not permitted to wear underwear. He said he’d know if I disobey. That he has eyes everywhere.”
I watched Takken’s face carefully as the implications sank in.
His eyes widened slightly—not with horror or protective anger, but with something that looked almost like relief.
Three days as Horakovsky’s guests meant three days of the Russian’s favor, three days of potential deals and advantages.
I could practically see the calculations running behind his eyes, weighing my degradation against political gain.
“Three days,” he repeated slowly, and I caught the note of barely suppressed excitement in his voice, though he tried to mask it with disapproval. His gray eyes had taken on that calculating gleam I knew too well. “He specifically invited both of us?”
“Yes. He was very clear about that.”
Takken’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Well then. It seems you’ve proven yourself useful after all.” He stepped closer, and I could smell the whiskey heavy on his breath. “My good little whore, spreading her legs for Russian cock to advance my career.”
The words should have stung, but they rolled off me like water. I’d been called worse things in the last few hours, had endured far more than mere insults.
“I can’t wait to watch,” he continued, his voice dropping to something ugly and anticipatory. “To see what he does to you over three whole days. Maybe I’ll finally understand what kind of slut I married.”
He turned and left without another word, pulling the bathroom door shut with a decisive click.
I stood there for a moment, water still dripping from my hair, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.
Only when I heard his study door close did I allow myself to sag against the sink, my carefully maintained composure crumbling.
My legs shook so badly I could barely make it to the bedroom.
Each step sent fresh waves of pain through my abused flesh, reminders of Horakovsky’s brutality that made me want to curl up and disappear.
I collapsed onto the bed, pulling a silk robe around myself, trying to find some comfort in the soft fabric against my welted skin.
The sudden buzz from beneath my pillow made my heart stop. With trembling fingers, I pulled out the burner phone, the silver raven glowing on its screen. The message appeared for only a heartbeat before vanishing, but I caught every precious word:
I love you. You are doing so well. Lie down on your bed so your Herra can reward you.
Tears of relief blurred my vision as I quickly lay back against the pillows, my body already responding to his distant command. I knew what was coming, what he could do to me through Freya’s Bridle, and the anticipation made my breath catch in my throat.
The first pulse of vibration between my legs was gentle, almost tender—so different from the brutality I’d endured hours before.
I pressed my hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp as the sensation intensified, the device somehow knowing exactly where to focus its attention.
My clit, still swollen and sensitive from Horakovsky’s whip, responded instantly to the rhythmic pulsing.
Without conscious thought, my free hand moved behind me, finding that tender place Horakovsky had violated. The soreness there seemed to amplify everything, and as my finger pressed inside, I had to bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying out.
The vibrations shifted, becoming more intense, more demanding.
My Herra was controlling this from wherever he was, watching over me somehow, rewarding me for my sacrifice.
The thought of him—his steel-gray eyes, his strong hands, the way he’d claimed this very hole I was now touching—sent a fresh wave of arousal through me.
I pushed my finger deeper, unable to stop myself even as my face burned with shame at the wanton action.
The combination of Freya’s Bridle stimulating my clit and my own finger working my sore bottom was overwhelming.
I could feel myself climbing toward that edge with frightening speed, my body trained too well by my Herra to resist.
In my mind, I wasn’t alone in this bed. Aksel was behind me, his massive frame pressed against my back, his thick cock replacing my inadequate finger.
I imagined his voice in my ear, praising me for being such a good girl, for enduring Horakovsky’s cruelty to serve our cause.
The fantasy was so vivid I could almost feel his breath on my neck, his hand covering mine to push my finger deeper.
The orgasm hit me like a lightning strike.
I turned my face into the pillow to muffle my scream as waves of pleasure crashed through me, more intense than anything I’d managed in the shower.
My pussy clenched desperately around nothing while my bottom gripped my finger, the dual sensation prolonging the climax until I thought I might pass out from the intensity.
As the pleasure crested, the silver branches materialized around me again, but this time they felt different—warmer, somehow, suffused with a golden quality alongside the silver.
“Thank you, Herra,” I whispered. “I love you, too.”